And one day, it’ll all be over.
The wild, uncertain 20s — where we tried, failed, learned, loved, lost, and laughed at the chaos. The 30s that come with a quiet intensity, a building of foundation, of self, of legacy. The 40s, 50s, 60s, maybe even the 70s, 80s, or if we’re lucky, the 90s and 100s — each a gift wrapped in time we never asked for, but somehow were given anyway.
Nothing is promised. Not time. Not memory. Not even who we are today.
We spend so much of life overthinking — wishing we could forget the things that hurt us, the moments that scarred us, the words we wish were never said. We replay conversations that never ended the way we wanted them to. We dwell in old versions of ourselves we’ve long since outgrown.
But have you ever thought about what it would mean to actually forget?
What if, one day, we no longer remember our childhood laugh, our first love, the song that healed us at just the right time? What if the faces of those we once swore we couldn’t live without blur into soft shadows? What if the very memories we try so hard to suppress become the ones we wish we could recall just once more?
We are the sum of every moment we’ve lived — the good and the bad, the magical and the mundane. Our memories are stitched into us, not just as stories, but as the very fabric of who we are. To forget them might mean peace, yes… but it might also mean forgetting what it felt like to truly live.
So maybe instead of wishing to forget, we learn to carry things lighter.
To soften the grip on what haunts us without erasing what shaped us.
Because the truth is: we won’t always remember.
But while we do, we have the rare, fleeting privilege of feeling it all.
And that — the full spectrum of human experience — might just be the most beautiful part of being alive.
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